The Lavender Experiment
by Ellarose C
Summary: Heavy steps stopped a few steps below him, and Poland lifted his tear stained face to see Russia in front of him with solemn eyes and a spray of lavender in his hands.'


The Lavender Experiment

It had been three days. Three whole fucking days, and they still hadn't figured out why his boss's plane had crashed.  
Poland sat numbly on the steps of the presidential palace, watching his people go past with candles and flower wreaths with wide blind eyes, absorbing their grief into his far too open heart. Pain this bad should be illegal in a nation without war. Not only was he in the deepest mourning this side of the century, but he would have to rebuild his human bureaucracy basically from scratch. No one should ever have to do that. It felt like burying his own sons.

He clutched the black shawl draped over his head tighter at his throat, tears running down in almost engraved ruts on his cheeks. Why didn't they know what had happened yet? He was in the dark, an unusual situation, and needed information desperately. Information had become his air, and he was underwater. He curled up into himself, burying his face in the ends of his heavy shawl as the tears came faster. The family of a general entered the palace.

Heavy steps stopped a few steps below him, and he lifted his tear stained face to see Russia in front of him with solemn eyes and a spray of lavender in his hands.

He stood, the saline on his cheeks burning with grief fueled hate. "You!" Poland tripped down the stairs to fall into Russia, small fists pounding the large nation's chest feebly as he cried, "This is all your fault! If it wasn't for stupid you and stupid history and stupid planes, none of this wouldn't've happened!" Russia just stared down at the angry weeping nation with no smile on his face, letting him get it out as he knew he needed to. He understood expressions of anger.

After a few seconds of senseless pounding, though, Poland collapsed onto Russia, crying senselessly once more, but harder than ever. This Russia also understood; he let him fall into despair, awkwardly holding him close with the hand with the lavender while setting the other hand on top of the smaller's head. He moved from his experience as the receiving end of heartbreak, how he had felt in the past where terrible, horrible things had happened to him and his people, much worse than this, where he had had no one. He had a soft spot for tragedy beyond control.

He rubbed the thin man's back and held his head against his chest, murmuring Russian lullabies as he was clutched in thin arms encased in black. The people filed by, invisible to the plight on the steps as their emotions filtered into the little blonde who could do nothing but cry.

Candles were out and lit by the time he could finally think beyond his people's sadness. Russia has run out of lullabies long ago - even Russian doesn't go on that long - and had slowly maneuvered Poland back to sitting on the steps, sitting beside him and wrapping his arm, fingers still clutching the lavender out of mind, around his shoulders.

Poland wiped his eyes with the ends of his long since soaked shawl. "I must look like a wimp now, crying like this," he laughed feebly, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes. Russia smiled, but not his usual. This was an experiment.

"No, not at all," he mumbled. He knew what to say, he had rehearsed this, fine tuned it in his head, for centuries. "Everyone has to go through this. It vill get better, though, don' vorry," he said softly, leaning his cheek on the rough wool on the top of his head. Poland's arms, still wrapped around him, squeezed tighter, then fell away. Russia turned to face him, drawing a bent leg onto the wide stair and putting his large hands on the thin shoulders. "A good cry over fallen comrades is a vonderful thing," he told him quietly, kindly, as one would speak to a spooked horse, using his own shirtcuff to clean the tear-streaked face, "but do not dwell on it for too long. Mourn, yes, but keep going, for time will not stop anymore than your president will stop being dead."

He pulled one of his hands away to finally present him with the flowers. Poland laughed and took them with trembling hands. The wet paper towels wrapped around the bottom of the spray had long since lost their moisture, and they were drooping, but the sentiment was still all there. He looked up at the ultimate cause of his sorrow and smiled. "Thank you."

"Pleasure." Russia stood and offered a hand to Poland, who took it gracefully and hauled himself to his feet. He readjusted the skewed shawl around his head as the two of them made their way to the circle of citizens with candles scattered around the steps, the palace, the streets. "I've always vanted to say that, you know," he admitted, slowly his stride to keep up with the shorter nation.

Poland lifted his head from where he had been buried to his nose in lavender. "Oh? Why?"

"I've lived a hard life, as you may know," Russia began quietly. They were now walking down the streets with no apparent purpose, but Poland kept his attention fixed on him so he continued, "but I've never had anyone to comfort me all the time - not even Lithuania, alvays. But I've alvays imagined vhat they vould say if they did..."

"And you just told me that, didn't you?" Poland finished his thoughts with a smile. Russia nodded. He stopped and pulled the big man to face him, eyes lighting up ever so slightly. "Well, honey, next time something bad happens to you I'll try to, like, be around for you, too," he promised him, his cheerful nature almost returning. Russia grinned for real.

"That vould be nice." They started walking again, Russia finally smiling like usual with the satisfaction of a job well done, Poland with his eyes closed and crushed lavender in his senses.

_It will get better, don't worry_, he repeated in his head. _It vill..._

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{A/N: Yeah yeah another one of these. I just couldn't resist. Now to go really work on my chapter fic...}_  
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